Paradise revisited, then lost (the story of my grandfather, part I))

Outside Dick Winans’ cottage, the ocean waves splashed on the soft sand, washing up to the tourists’ bicycle tires as they peddled along the Bay Head, N.J. waterline. Along the beach, men dressed in suits, hats and ties as they spread out their blankets and pulled food from picnic baskets. Some would arrive at sunrise, enjoying the orange glow that wrapped around the Bay Head horizon every morning.

In 1933, Dick spent his summer weekends there, jumping into the waves and swimming out so far that the lifeguards had to whistle him in. He often walked door-to-door carrying buckets of fish he bought at a nearby wholesaler, and then selling them to the tourists who rented the six-bedroom mansions and the small, three-room cottages that lined the beachfront. Some politely declined; others pitied him and obliged.

Dick, then 20, dreamed of attending Princeton University, even though he knew his family couldn’t afford it. He wanted to be a successful businessman, even as his father suffered through the worst effects of the Great Depression, losing thousands of dollars in the stock market crash and struggling to keep his insurance-broker business afloat.

But the shore was Dick’s refuge, a weekend escape from a life that he often described as unsettled and uneasy. It would be his one constant, the place that offered few surprises as his family moved three times during the early 1930s, eventually settling in the small, but busy community of Hightstown, N.J. that was 50 miles north of Bay Head.

In Dick’s life, the beach would be an enduring symbol, serving as a resting place for his mother, Grace, as she recovered from the effects of a stroke. Its elegance would remind him of what his family once was: A prominent, successful colonial family who were among the first settlers in Elizabeth, N.J. Ultimately, the shore would become his life’s saving grace, helping Dick move past tragedy that forced him to put his ambitions on hold and move once again.

On July 12, 1933, a month after his high school graduation, Dick departed Bay Head and left behind his ailing mother so he could be with his father, Edward. Earlier in the week, his father gave simple, but short instructions: Arrive at the South Main Street house at 3 p.m. on Wednesday. No reason was given; no plan was offered. Just come home, Dick was told.

Once there, Dick discovered what his father had planned: Edward was sitting on a chair that was close to a gas range, his arms folded and his head tilted over, but still wearing his eyeglasses. Cotton batting and paper had been stuffed into the home’s cracks and the keyholes, blocking anything from seeping out.

Edward Winans, 62, had been dead for 24 hours.

Five years earlier, his mother and brother died the same way, suffocating when gas burners were left on.

Unlike them, Edward’s would be labeled a suicide, a victim of financial troubles brought on by the Great Depression. He would be among the 17 for every 100,000 Americans who killed themselves during the 1930s. Like so many others, he chose to kill himself rather than get rid the car, the beach cottage, the private school and the stylish clothes that made the Winans family feel whole.

Once, the Winans were symbols of consistency and stability. The family settled in Elizabeth, N.J. during the 17th century, and stayed in the same South Street neighborhood – just blocks away from City Hall and the library – for nearly 200 years. Dick’s grandfather, Elias, fought for the Union in the Civil War before he was married and raised a family of four children, beginning in the late 1800s. Dick often told others that Stephen Crane, the author, was a cousin. Both the Winans and the Cranes were among the original founders of Elizabethtown back in the 1600s.

After Elias died of heart disease in 1903, at the age of 62, Dick’s grandmother, Lydia, moved with her son, Frederick, into a small South Street shingle house in Elizabeth that was divided into two, three-room apartments. The quiet pair lived there for 25 years, maintaining a polite but rarely social relationship with those who lived in the long row of neighboring apartment buildings that were rising up in Elizabeth’s busy downtown.

On Oct. 5, 1928, a neighbor detected a gas odor coming from Lydia’s apartment. He called police, who quickly arrived with an ambulance and a doctor. Forcing their way in, they opened the door to the kitchen and adjoining bedroom.

There, they found Lydia on the couch, and Frederick on the floor. Their dog, who had been heard barking a day earlier, was lying in the center of the room, lifeless. All three had been dead for several hours, their bodies heavy and rigid.

In the kitchen, gas was flowing from a burner, and its smell filled the kitchen and the bedroom. No note was left. No motive was found. The police ruled it accidental, even as neighbors wondered: Why did they die in the daylight with the door shut?

At the time, Edward was 57, living with his family at the Stacy Trent Motel in Trenton, a 10-story high-rise in city’s downtown. He had been struggling for years to make his insurance business profitable, hoping to find the success that would finally anchor his life.

Right: Dick Winans, my grandfather

Edward was raised in Elizabeth, and he and Grace settled there before moving to Asbury Park, where Dick was born in 1913. At one point, Edward left the family and worked on a cattle ranch as a cowboy in Wyoming, hoping to raise extra money so he could come back to New Jersey, and find a permanent home that his family could afford. But he departed Wyoming after only a year, returning once he realized that he wasn’t cut out for ranching and branding.

Edward was an anxious man who was never satisfied with the money he had, the family he cared for or the job he worked. With Dick, he was distant, allowing his son to develop a much closer relationship with his mother, Grace. She kept him out of school until he was 7, choosing to tutor him while the family moved from town-to-town. Grace also taught Dick how to cook; his “specialty,” he liked to say, was pineapple upside-down cake.

But as Dick grew older, Edward became concerned. His son had little interest in sports. He joined no clubs at Peddie, an exclusive private high school in Hightstown where Dick enrolled before his sophomore year. He had few, if any friends. Edward worried, in particular, about Dick’s masculinity. He sent him to boxing lessons, hoping the experience would toughen him up and win him some friends.

But Dick still chose to keep to himself while at school, and continue cooking with his mother at home. In his high school yearbook, when each student was asked to describe themselves, Dick wrote: “An innocent, retiring floweret.”

During the Great Depression, Edward found himself working constantly, hoping to replenish the money he lost. Despite their financial worries, the Winans family sought to fit in, buying clothing for Dick that would match what the Bay Head wealthy were wearing – as well what was popular among the high-achieving, high-income-level study body at Peddie, from which Dick graduated in June 1933.

Edward chose Peddie for Dick, impressed with its demanding curriculum, as well as its brick-and-stone buildings and ornate rooftops that gave the campus a Princeton-like aura. He compelled Dick to wear shirts with high collars, silk ties and knickers, giving him a classic look that rivaled any of the shirts, shoes and socks worn by his fellow students.

Sending Dick to Peddie was also a move toward stability. Yet, while Dick was there, his family moved twice, relocating from Trenton to Lawrenceville before settling on a Victorian house on South Main Street, across the South Main Street from Peddie. There, the Peddie classroom building was only a two-minute walk away. The family’s home was part of a string of Victorian-era houses that had five or more bedrooms, nearly all of them built in the mid-19th century.

As the family struggled with illness and financial problems, Dick showed up for class photos looking sullen, unsmiling yet determined. In the school’s yearbooks, other students offered several lines of observations and aspirations about their time at Peddie, quoting Plato and Aristotle. Dick wrote only of his one goal: Princeton.

During the summers, Dick often drove his mother to Bay Head, hoping the warm sea air would somehow help her recovery. There, Grace was conscious and alert, though she slowly lost her ability to walk. At the cottage, Dick would often pick her up and carry her to bed.

As the Great Depression lingered, the people of Bay Head still wore their expensive knickers and wide-brimmed hats as they walked or rode bicycles along the shoreline. To Dick, the atmosphere made him feel elegant and wealthy. He often went for long walks along the Boardwalk that extended into Point Pleasant Beach, adoring the sunrises that glistened on the water. The area was surrounded by an ocean, bay and canal, magnifying the orange glow that came from the sunlight.

By 1933, however, Bay Head became a place that Edward could no longer afford. His money was virtually gone; yet he kept the car Dick used to drive his mother to the shore. Edward refused to buy a home, worried that he never knew where he was going live next. With his insurance business nearly bankrupt, he didn’t want to get wrapped up in a long-term mortgage that couldn’t pay off. Still, he continued to pay the rent at the cottage, believing that it stabilized his family better than any job could.

He also kept Dick in Peddie School, where tuition was more than $250 a year, even as other private schools – particularly Catholic schools – charged less than half the price.

When Dick’s father summoned him home, on July 12, 1933, he didn’t say why. Dick often argued when the reason he got, from his point-of-view, was insufficient. Others called Dick stubborn and unwilling to accept contradiction or change. This time, however, no reason was apparently given. This time, Dick couldn’t argue what he didn’t know.

That day, the sky was cloudy, but the 70-degree temperatures made the air feel cooler-than-usual. Despite the threat of rain, not a drop fell as Dick made the hour-long car trip back to Hightstown, passing by the row of small shops and markets on North Main Street that catered to the local farming community. Had Dick stayed in Bay Head, he may have enjoyed a sea breeze that broke a recent hot spell, when temperatures approached 90 degrees. Instead, he was in Hightstown, where the air was still, smelling gas as he stood a few feet from the door of his house.

He turned around and hustled across the street, heading toward the Peddie classroom building where he found the assistant headmaster, Ralph Harmon, and asked him to help investigate.

Dick often relied on the Peddie faculty for help. He could trust them, and some of the faculty acted as surrogate fathers to students who lived on campus and felt homesick. Getting them to help was logical, he believed, and never impulsive. In this case, Harmon was a natural find – he was a trusted math teacher to whom the Class of 1932 dedicated its yearbook. On July 12, 1933, Harmon readily left his place and followed Dick to his front door.

They opened it, and followed the odor the kitchen. There, they found Edward.

Weeks later, his Princeton plans on hold, Dick did the one thing his father could never bring himself to do: He sold everything off, dumping the Bay Head cottage, the Hightstown house and all the furniture inside.

He then moved with his mother to Florida, enrolled at the University of Miami and gave his mother a gift as her health continued to decline: beach sand, warm air and sunrises on the water.